Sherlolly Bits and Bobs
by MizJoely
Summary: A new collection of Sherlolly one-shots and drabbles - let's see if I make it to 221, shall we? (Ratings will vary.)
1. In Her Arms

_I have a file of partial stories and bits and bobs I've deleted from existing stories but liked too much to completely delete. When I was adding some stuff to day I found the beginnings of what you see below and added to it. So have some T rated Post Reichenbach Sherlock POV angst._

* * *

Without thinking, he steps forward and presses a kiss to her lips. Her gasp of surprise only spurs him on; his hands move of their own accord, pulling her close, until one arm is around her shoulders and the fingers of his other hand are tugging at the elastic holding her hair in a loose pony-tail on the back of her neck.

"Sherlock!" she exclaims, pushing him away. Her cheeks are red, her pupils fully dilated, and she is panting a bit, but he can tell it's as much from worry as desire. Not fear; for some reason, she's never feared him even at times like this, when he fears himself, what he might be capable of doing. "What are you…what was that?"

"A kiss," he replies, keeping his voice as bored and disinterested as he can manage. "I believe you've heard of them?"

"Why kiss me?" she asks - no, demands. He much prefers her demanding rather than pleading, although he suspects that could easily change under the right circumstances. Circumstances which he is just now realizing he is attempting to initiate. "What do you want?"

"You," he replies honestly. "Right now I want you. Is that good enough for you, Molly Hooper? That I want you?"

Her expression is curiously unreadable; is she contemplating kissing him again, or slapping him? Fortunately for him, she opts for the former rather than the latter, which he very much appreciates; although it might be interesting to let her slap him around a bit, he'd very much like to go back to snogging her at the moment. Snogging her, and perhaps doing a bit more before he heads off to his self-imposed task of destroying what remains of Moriarty's network.

She tugs him to her bedroom as they continue to kiss, and he understands that yes, this will go beyond snogging.

Good.

He lacks the practical experience of sex, and this way he'll have another weapon in his arsenal that he might find useful.

That's the lie he tells himself - and her - as she very thoroughly relieves him of just about every virginity he has left. She pretends to believe him as she kisses him good-bye, and he pretends not to want to remain in her arms for the next thousand years or so as he walks out the door.

For the sake of his sanity, he must lock away his feelings for Molly Hooper just as he's locked away his friendship for John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. For however long it takes, he has to pretend they and London will remain in a sort of stasis until he returns.

But when he does return - oh, the plans he has for Molly Hooper and her loving arms…


	2. I Don't Like Your Tone

_A/N: Just some fun with ringtones. Rated T mostly due to the nature of the ringtones._

* * *

 _Ahhhhh…_

John stared incredulously at Sherlock as he whipped his mobile out of his dresing-gown pocket. "Seriously?" he demanded as his friend began to respond to the text. " _This_ is the time you decide to take my advice? After everything that happened at Sherrinford?"

"Mm," was Sherlock's absent response. He smiled fondly at his phone as another moaning text alert sounded.

John shook his head. "Does Molly know about this?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied at he shot back a rapid-fire response to the text.

"And she's all right with it?"

Sherlock waggled the phone, still staring at it. "Obviously."

"It's just, I can't imagine why she would be…"

Sherlock frowned and glanced at John over his shoulder. "Why wouldn't she be? It was her idea."

"Her idea." Sherlock nodded as his phone moaned again. "Molly Hooper's idea," John tried again, hoping for clarity of some sort to descend upon him. "She encouraged you to text Irene, even after the whole 'I love you' thing."

 _Ahhhhh…_

This time Sherlock ignored his mobile in favor of leveling an incredulous gaze of his own upon his best friend. "John, what have I said about seeing but not observing? Or in this case," he added before John could come back with a biting retort, " _listening_ without hearing."

 _Ahhhhh…_

John opened and then closed his mouth, wrinkled his forehead in thought, then scratched his chin and ducked his head as he sank back into his chair. "That's, ah, a different, um, moan," he said, shifting uncomfortably.

Sherlock nodded. "Yup. Molly recorded it for me after I informed Irene of my change in relationship status." He gave the phone another fond smile and began tapping away at the screen. "She wished us luck and might even have meant it, hard to gauge the tone on a text sometimes."

"That's good," John said, nodding to himself. "Glad to hear it. Glad that you and Molly are making a go of it. I wasn't sure since you two didn't seem to be acting any differently when you're together."

"Oh, I can assure you, John, we act _very_ differently when we're together," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Surely you didn't think Molly _faked_ that moan for me?"

And that's how John Watson finally learned when to quit while he was ahead.

Too much information, indeed.


	3. Regency Wedding Night

_A/N: I was going through my file of bits and pieces and found the first few paragraphs and managed to make it into a bit of something. Something naughty, definitely M rated. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you all for your marvelous comments and reviews on previous entries._

* * *

Sherlock is panting, grunting as he eases himself back out of her a bit before once again surging forward. Molly's hands are on his shoulders and she's staring raptly at his face. His eyes are screwed shut, his brow furrowed and damp with sweat as he pulls back once more - and then suddenly he gives a loud grunt and surges forward again, and she can feel that he's fully, completely inside her now. She gives a startled 'Oh' at the sensation and he stills, his eyes snapping open to meet hers. "Am I hurting you?" he asks, sounding much less assured than before.

Before the furrow between his eyes can do more than deepen with concern, she shakes her head and smiles. "No, I like it, it feels wonderful." And it does, it does, more wonderful than she'd expected or hoped. Yes, there's a slight burn, but nowhere near the pain her Aunt Lavinia had warned her about in dark whispers as she helped prepare her for her wedding night.

She wonders if this is because she's with the man she loves. Or is it because the man she loves feels as ardently for her as she does him?

In the end, she knows it doesn't matter; all that does matter is that they are together, that they have proclaimed their love for one another and will spend the rest of their lives together.

"Say it again," he mumbles against the heated flesh of her neck. He lifts his head, looks into her eyes, and what she sees their causes her breath to catch. He's open, vulnerable, even a little bit frightened. "Please, Molly. Say it again."

She smiles, pulls him down so that their foreheads touch, their breaths mingle. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she says.

"And I love you, Molly Holmes," he replies, capturing her lips in a fervent kiss. She returns it just as passionately, and in that moment, with nothing but the purest love in her heart, she reaches the pinnacle of physical ecstasy. It crests over her like a wave, entirely unexpected, and she cries out against Sherlock's mouth, feels his lips curling into a smile as she strains against him in an effort to keep the sensation from ebbing away.

Alas, physical pleasure is only too fleeting, and all too soon she shudders and comes fully back to herself. Sherlock has stopped moving, courteously waiting on her pleasure before chasing his own. She encourages him to move; just because she was an untried virgin before this night - as was he! - doesn't mean she has no concept of how the act is meant to be accomplished. A scant few minutes later he tautens, strains, and she feels the hot pulse of his seed deep within her.

He shudders and gasps and lets out a guttural moan as his body stutters to a stop, and he comes to rest atop her only for a moment before raising himself on his elbows and gazing down at her. "I rather hope you conceive immediately, wife," he says with a wry grin after he's caught his breath again.

She raises an eyebrow, some imp causing her to say, "Oh? But didn't you once tell me that the only reason for such 'sweaty intimacies' was to conceive new life? If I do come away from this encounter with your child, won't that mean you'll stop desiring me?"

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, eases his way out of her body and falls to his back, curling her close to his side. "Hm, I do believe my unmarried self was a bit of a prig," he replies, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Yes, well, at least your married self knows better," she says, kissing the tip of his nose. She will never, ever tire of kissing him, any part of him, now that she knows how wonderful it feels to do so.

"My, aren't we confident," he teases. "What happened to the mousy miss my family ordered me to court?"

She reaches up, tenderly strokes her hand across his cheek, his brow, his sweat-dampened curls. "She disappeared into the past with your priggish unmarried self," she responds.

"And aren't we both happy to leave them there," he sighs, and presses a gentle, loving kiss to her lips. They fall asleep in one another's arms, content that, no matter what the future might bring them, they will always face it together.


	4. Fire In The Blood

_A/N: Soooo M rated. Omegaverse inspired by and set during the scene at the beginning of "The Hounds of Baskerville", when Sherlock throws open the door to 221B, harpoon in hand and covered in pig's blood and declares to John:_ " _That was tedious."_

* * *

He's spattered with blood. It's not his blood - not even human blood ( _pig, she'll find out later_ ) - but he's there. In front of her. Spattered.

With.

 _Blood_.

She's tried her best to put aside just how much she aches for him, how very Omega she is to his Alpha, how her ovaries long to drop their eggs for him and him alone to fertilize; she's tried very hard to accept that he's Just Not That Into Her as anything more than a colleague and (perhaps) casual friend. She really has.

But now...he's spattered with blood. Dripping with it, from curly-haired head to narrow waist to lean hips and her carefully cultivated control just -

 _Snaps._

She sucks in a breath and it's gone, all of. Sense. Sensibility.

Sanity.

The quiet, friendly, eager to please Omega has just been torpedoed into a raging inferno of Heat just at the sight and scent of the Alpha she covets covered in pig's blood, and Molly Hooper knows with a feeling of both despair and delight that she'll never be that girl again.

Even if he reacts with ice to her fire; even if he turns cold, turns her away - _please God_ _ **no**_ \- turns her down, nothing can go back to the way it used to be.

Not for her.

She barely registers her own movements, too consumed by the growing heat that liquifies her loins and boils her stomach and burns in her chest and immolates her ability to think. Melts her thoughts away like marshmallows held over an open flame.

" _Sherlock_." She growls his name as she stops in front of him, raking his form with hungry, possessive, fiery eyes. Every breath sears her lungs and her fingers are itching - no, _burning_ \- to reach out. To touch, to hold, to take.

But some small part of her - very small, rapidly fading - forces her to wait. Even though all she wants to do is pounce on him, tear the clothes from his body, force him to the floor and demand that he take her, she waits.

He's the Alpha. He has to make the first move.

Otherwise she'll never know for sure if he's just tolerating her for the duration of her Heat.

"Molly, are you all right?"

The irritating voice isn't _his_ , it belongs to someone else. The Beta in the room. ( _John_ , that kernel of sense reminds her; she dismisses the information as irrelevant.) She'd utterly forgotten his presence until this moment, his scent barely noticeable under the rich smell of the blood and the heady musk of the Alpha standing still before her as if frozen (please, Gods above, not frozen, do not let him be made of ice, not in this pivotal moment). The hand holding the harpoon twitches, as does his nose. His nostrils flare, his lips part as he takes in deep, gulping, tasting breaths. His eyes meet hers.

"John," he says, his voice hoarse, desperate, beseeching. But before her heart can fully plummet to her stomach, he adds in a commanding Alpha growl, "Get out. _Now_." And he thrusts the harpoon at the other man, who fumbles for it, takes it in his hands and with no other words backs out of the door, what she catches of his scent matching the concern and bewilderment in his eyes ( _he's a doctor for fuck's sake, how can he be_ bewildered _by what's happening before his eyes, under his nose?_ ).

He's gone. They're alone. Just Molly and Sherlock, both breathing heavily, bodies quivering with tightly leashed energy. With longing - at least on her part. She can't speak for him, much as she'd like to believe he feels the same way. That he didn't just send John away so that he could let her down, thank her with false smiles and cold eyes for the cooler full of toes she'd come by to drop off for him to experiment on.

The cooler sits forgotten on the scarred, crowded kitchen table. There is nothing else in the flat to command her attention as she waits for him to do something. Anything. Even if he only throws her out as he just did John, sends her stumbling into a cab and fleeing to her flat in shame and sorrow and burning, ever burning, need.

Humiliated. Scorned. Or worse - _pitied_.

She opens her mouth to speak, the anticipation of rejection temporarily overpowering even her body's most primal urges, but he silences her with a gesture. One hand, raised up imperiously, palm in front of her face. Her lips close, so swiftly that her teeth jar together, and again she finds herself _waiting_.

"This changes nothing," he warns her, lowering his hand, clenching it into a fist by his side as he holds her gaze with his own.

She nods; of course it doesn't. She knows he has no desire for a mate, for offspring; no interest in being tied down, becoming just another Alpha who can't control himself around a ripe Omega. She also knows she'll be heartbroken when her Heat runs its course and he sends her back home with no permanent Bonding mark on her throat, with aching body and empty womb ( _because she knows he's on suppressants and male birth control, he's not stupid enough to ignore the most basic precautions available in modern society even if he scorns the ways of the flesh or has done so until now_ ).

She herself is on birth control but it's tied to her own (obviously failed) suppressants so they'll have to rely on his and she would never tie him down, she would never-

"Molly," he growls, using his most commanding Alpha voice to snap her attention fully back on him and away from the downward spiral of her growing despair. "You misunderstand me."

He steps closer, reaches up and takes her face in his hands, forcing her to look up at him even as her cheeks burn hotter beneath his grasp.

She shivers. Violently. He's rarely touched her before, aside from the odd hand at the small of her back and that Christmas kiss - brief, cool, yet utterly unforgettable - against her cheek.

"When I say nothing will change," he tells her, holding his gaze with his own, "it's because this moment was inevitable, no matter how much I tried to deny it. We're too damned compatible, you and I, and not just when it comes to biology." One long finger slides up to tap her temple. "We're like minded, you and I, even if I've never told you that. Do you believe me?"

She nods, tries to still the shaking in her limbs as she feels the heat rolling off his body. His scent fills her nostrils and she breathes it greedily into her lungs and opens her mouth to taste it on the air, watching his mouth as he admits the one thing she never expected to hear from. "I've known it for years, Molly Hooper, that you were always going to be the one to bring me tumbling down from the pedestal I hid myself on."

He leans closer, nips her ear; her hands curl into the front of his aubergine button-up, desperately holding her upright when her knees feel as if they've turned to butter. He strokes just the tips of his fingers along her cheeks. Her ears. Down the column of her throat. His breath is hot on her ear as he breathes, "And I am so very glad to take this particular fall."

She lunges up at those words, all patience, all hesitation and doubt and fear gone. She takes his mouth in a ferocious, consuming kiss. She rises onto her toes and presses her body against his, feeling the hard lump of his desire against her hip, and knows herself to be beyond the ability to _wait_ even a single second longer.

She barely notices that her hands have clawed their way to his open collar, that she's tearing his shirt from his body, leaving scratches against the pale smoothness of his chest. She barely notices him doing the same to her own sensible blouse and cardigan. She does, however, notice when they're both fully naked, hot flesh to hot flesh, his cock nestled aggressively against her mound. She's dripping, her thighs slick, her cunt pulsing with the need to be filled by him, for his Knot to rise and expand and force them together; her nipples are tight, aching buds pressing into his chest and she's becoming nothing but a volcano on the verge of eruption and he hasn't even entered her yet.

As if reading her thoughts he takes her into his arms. Carries her into his bedroom. Kicks the door shut behind them with enough force to splinter it ( _Mrs. Hudson will_ tsk _over the damage later but say nothing more_ ). Lays her on his bed. Drops to his knees on the floor before she can protest their separation.

Drags her by the knees so that her cunt is directly in front of his blood-spattered face. ( _She's a doctor by training, she knows she should insist he wash up, clean the foreign fluids from his body before letting him touch her but she's already kissed him, already tasted the blood on his lips and will just have to deal with any future consequences when and if they arise._ )

His mouth lands on her with such eagerness that she cries out, her body going rigid as his tongue thrusts deeply between her swollen folds. Her Heat flushes over her body, sheeting her with delicious fire, burning between her legs where he laves her, tastes her, sucks her and licks her and brings to the _nearly there_ point within the merest of seconds.

When he stops, pulls back, releases her from his greedy grasp she cries out again, this time a veritable howl of frustration. But the whine of withdrawal dies in her throat as he presses himself atop her. His mouth is at her throat, his teeth worrying the tender flesh as she opens her legs, gathers him in her arms, gasps out his name.

He pushes into, slowly, steadily even though her entire being is crying out for him to _thrust_ , to _shove_ , to fill her _now_. She digs her nails into his shoulders, draws fresh, living human blood from his skin; she surges up to meet his mouth as he descends to kiss her and finally, _finally_ he's fully, deeply inside her.

They both sigh at the same time, but sighs quickly turn to grunts and moans and gasps as they rut together with the urgency of wild animals. The so-called taint in the blood, the mutation or what have you that split humanity into three distinct groups - Alpha, Omega, and the majority Beta - is not the burden so many believe it to be. Not in moments like this. Not when the blood boils and sings in ecstasy. Not when two bodies are joined in the most intimate of dances, when the pulse is pounding with the fierce intensity of martial drumming.

She clings to him; she scratches and claws and bites until blood is drawn - and he, Sherlock Holmes, the man who holds cold logic above all base needs of the body - he does the same. He bites her throat above her pounding pulse, her blood filling his mouth as she screams out her first orgasm of the day-night- _week_ they'll spend willingly, joyfully tethered to one another in their first shared Heat.

They kiss, urgently, sloppily, trading the taste of one another's blood and soon the Bond is singing, singing, singing through their veins. His Knot rises; she comes for a second time and clenches around him and with a roar of challenge and triumph he forces the swollen glands at the base of his cock deep inside her. His cum fills her in a series of hot, gushing pulses, scalding her with the most delicious fire and she knows they'll be parents in nine months.

After the first madness fades, she shyly mentions this to him, her certainty that she'll be pregnant before their shared time is up, but before self-doubt and the urge to apologize, to take responsibility and shoulder guilt can do more than bubble up in her mind, he silences her with a firm kiss.

"We've always been inevitable, Molly Hooper," he says when the kiss ends. Almost - tenderly? His scent roils with lust and need and want and she can't pick out the finer tendrils coiling around her. "I've ignored you, I've pushed you away and been cruel to you. And now," he adds musingly, even as his fingers continue their dance along her skin, "now we've Bonded I won't be able to hide my feelings from you, won't be able to pretend I'm just manipulating you to get you to do what I want."

They both groan and cling to one another as a secondary orgasm washes through them, mellower and shorter than the first one they shared but just as beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the way he's looking at her, as the way she can feel his sincerity and - dare she call it that? - love through their newly formed Bond.

"You are now and always have been mine," he murmurs as he cradles her in his arms. "Just as I am now and always have been - and will forever be - yours."

And so it proves to be.

* * *

 _End note: Thank you everyone for your kind words on previous fics. I hope you enjoyed this one as well. :)_


	5. For You

_A/N: A Hades & Persephone AU culled from a longer piece I'll never actually complete. Rated T. _

* * *

The music pulls her from her despairing thoughts. She follows the dark pathways of the Underworld, enchanted and hopeful for the first time in what feels like years ( _she's only been here for two circuits of the moon, the lunar orb pulling pulling pulling at her even buried so far from its rays_ ).

She steps into a cavern she's never seen before, and a gasp escapes her lips. "It's beautiful," she says, meeting his gaze for the first time since he'd abducted ( _rescued_ ) her from the world above.

His lips curve in a small smile. "I made it for you," he says simply, this man who is far from simple. A God, like her, but one made for dark secrets and death and the cold of the grave.

 _No._ He is more than that, she knows that now, has learned it ( _unwillingly at times, but this is not one of those times_ ). This cave of wonders he's created (for her?), the beautiful melodies he coaxes from the strings of his lyre, the glittering black blossom he used to entice her to his kingdom - all of that and more tells her that the truth she thought she knew is only a small part of who he is.

She circles the cavern as she struggles with what he's just told her. He made this for her. For _her_.

She cannot - quite - decide how that makes her feel. So instead she examines the grotto, finding more and more to admire with every step, every lingering glance. The flowers formed of gemstones, lit by the phosphorescent glow of the unique mosses and lichens that are the only plant life that thrive here. The roots of unknown trees festooning the high arched ceiling, busy with insect life - insects that produce their own soft glow, blues and yellows and reds, royal purples and verdant greens.

The soft moss that gives comfort to feet grown weary of hard stone and cold dirt.

"You made this," she says, and he nods. Slowly. Gravely. He is always so serious, so unlike herself…but of course he is. His duty is to the dead; he is bound to his kingdom even as his brother is bound to his, so far away in the world above. The world of sunlight and green growing things and animals and the fascinating humans whose souls eventually find their way here ( _they die so quickly, humans, and for so many reasons and she's always found that fascinating even if her mother is horrified by that fascination_ ).

"I made it," he says, his voice a soothing baritone rumble that nevertheless sends prickles of…something…down her spine. She spins away from him, reaches out to touch light fingers to the sparkling rubies and emeralds and diamonds glittering in the wall in front of her.

"You made it for me."

Again he nods. "I made it for you," he confirms, and her breath stops in her throat ( _no need for a Goddess to breathe but still they do, one of the many ways they emulate the humans that worship them, something she's never questioned until now but it's not important, no, only his words are important_ ).

Slowly she turns back to face him as she finally asks the question that's been trembling on her lips these past minutes. "Why?"

He nods, rises to his feet, his lyre forgotten on the stone floor. "I cannot give you sunshine and life, Molly," he says quietly, "but I can give you some small reminder of the world you left behind when I brought you here."

Something flashes in his quicksilver eyes - is that regret? Yes, she thinks it is. And feels a flush of shame, for she was the one who provoked him into bringing her here, all to spite her clinging, overbearing mother. In her pride and foolishness she'd done the one thing forbidden to her as a Goddess of Nature - she'd deliberately, maliciously, plucked the dark bloom that had the Lord of the Dead's first attempt at creation.

She feels shame, hangs her head, but raises it when he speaks again. "I know it's not enough to entice you to stay," he says indifferently ( _oh but she knows better, knows him well enough to recognize what is true and what is false and this is false false false, he is anything_ but _indifferen_ t _here, in this fraught moment_ ). "But I had hoped…"

He stops speaking, Holds out his hand. In it are six pomegranate seeds. "I had hoped," he continues softly, "that I might convince you to stay of your own accord, and not allow your mother to bully my brother into demanding that I return you."

She sees the flicker of emotion in his sea-green eyes, and wonders at never having noticed how those cat-like orbs reflect the things she longs for most - the greens of living things, the blues of the sky, and the gold of the sun. All those colors and more are blended in his eyes, and now that she is looking at him through new eyes of her own ( _brown as the earth beneath and above them_ )…now she realizes that giving herself to him is not the sacrifice her mother and the other Gods seem to think it is.

She closes the distance between them. Takes the hand he is holding out, raises it to her lips…and delicately, deliberately, licks the six seeds from his palm. Swallows them down. Smiles at the sound of his indrawn breath, knowing it for surprise and startlement and - yes, she sees hope in his eyes. "When my mother brings her forces and demands that you surrender me, you can tell her I'll stay with her six months out of the year. But that I must stay with you for the other six months."

He understands; of course he does, he's far too clever not to make the connection. Six seeds, six months. "And now, Husband," she says huskily, finally acknowledging the truth of their relationship, "show me how pleased you are that I finally believe you."

He'd told her he loved her, said it like he meant it - but it had taken her far too long to accept that truth. Two months wasted, and now she finds herself impatient to make up for lost time.

When he remains unmoving, she felts a quiver of uncertainty - and then a smile blossoms on her face. Raising herselp up on her toes, she rests one hand on his and the other against his chest. Feels the beating of his heart as she presses a soft kiss to the perfect Eros's bow of his lips. "I love you," she murmurs against the soft, warm flesh of his mouth. "It's true, Sherlock. It's always been true."

He crushes her to him, lifts her in his arms, and carries her swiftly across the cavern, to the spot where the moss is as soft and springy beneath their bodies as the finest bed. He makes love to her, worships her, and she does the same for him.

And nine months later, when her mother finally gathers enough support to storm the entrance to his kingdom, she is unsettled to find her daughter smiling next to him, welcoming her into the Underworld…and her granddaughter cooing and waving her chubby little fists as her father cradles her tenderly in his arms.

All bargains, all battles are forgotten in the wonder and joy of the new life created by the daughter of Nature and the Lord of the Dead.

Forever after, Molly spends six months out of the year away from the Underworld…but her husband and child come with her.

For those six months, the dead are left to care for themselves.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, follow and review. You guys rock!_


	6. Hysteria When You're Near

_A/N:_ _Blame this bit o' crack on_ _broomclosetkink_ _. She says it's not an evil idea._

 _You shall be the judges._

 _Rated M, includes marital infidelity (sort of), making fun of Tom, and quaint old-fashioned ideas of how to cure 'female hysteria'_

* * *

"Doctor Watson! Thank goodness you've come!" Sir Thomas grasped the arm of the man who'd knocked at his townhouse door, pushing aside his own butler and allowing neither man to protest as he hustled the visitor into the entryway. "My wife, I'm at my wit's end! Her parents claimed she was most biddable and modest, and yet in the two months we've been wed she's proven herself to be anything but! I fear it is..." Here he lowered his voice and looked around nervously, although the butler had already vanished from sight. "...female hysteria. And you, Doctor Watson, are surely the man to cure her of this ailment."

Sherlock Holmes - for it was he whom the inbred idiot had mistaken for his dear friend and boon companion Doctor John Watson - chose not to disabuse Sir Thomas of this notion, but rather allowed himself to be half-dragged up the imposing staircase and down several long, drafty corridors.

"You come highly recommended, Doctor Watson," Sir Thomas babbled as he walked. "Miss Janine Hawkins, a dear friend, cannot sing your praises too highly. In truth, it was she who advised me of this solution to my marital woes."

'Marital woes' indeed. Sherlock refrained from snorting at this ridiculous understatement. Sir Thomas had wed Molly out of desire for her family's money; she'd only agreed because the man she truly loved was an even bigger idiot than her (current) husband.

That man, of course, being one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Consulting Detective and utter arse who'd bollixed things up so badly that he'd been forced to resort to subertuge in order to gain access to the woman he had taken far too long to realize he loved.

"And tell me, Sir Thomas," he said, "do you often confide such intimate details to your 'dear friends'?" He raised his eyebrows in an expression of polite interest, and was rather savagely pleased to see the fellow's gaze drop as he blushed and stuttered an attempt at an explanation.

"Enough," Sherlock snapped as the idiot babbled on about men having needs and wives not understanding such things. "I believe it is high time I attended to my patient." With those words, he gave a peremptory knock on the door.

"Bugger off, I already told you I have a migraine! Surely you can find comfort in your favorite little trollops' arms tonight!"

Sherlock's lip curled in a delighted grin, and he wasted no time in wrenching open the door. Or rather, in attempting to so do; the little minx had locked it. "Good for you, Molly," he muttered to himself, then set about picking the lock while Sir Thomas fretted and muttered in the hall behind him.

As soon as the door opened, he ducked, and was therefore saved from a headache of his own since the hurled missile - a tea-cup - smashed against the far wall of the corridor instead (alas, entirely missing Sir Thomas' face). "I said, leave me a-oh!"

Molly, arm cocked to throw a second missile - the jam jar this time - and mouth open to deliver another insult, spluttered into silence as Sherlock strode confidently into the room. "Ah, Lady Molly, how very nice to make your acquaintance," he said, not giving her time to do more than lower her arm and clutch her dressing gown to her chest. "I am Doctor Watson, and have been summoned by your husband to assist you with your current, no doubt vexatious, indisposition."

"I-what?" was her rather inarticulate response.

"I have come to confirm your husband's diagnosis of female hysteria," he replied as he reached her side - and scooped her into his arms. "And in order to do so, I shall, of course, be required to give you a full examination."

"Sh-Doctor Watson, I thank you for your concern, but I can assure you, I am in no need of any medical assistance at this time," she said haughtily - but he saw the unhappiness in her eyes, and it made him almost physically ill to know that he was the reason for her current predicament.

"You just said you had a migraine," he countered, ignoring the clenching of his gut.

"It is much better, thank you," she riposted, pushing feebly at his chest. "All I needed was rest and privacy." With those words she shot a glare at her husband, who continued to pace near the door, wringing his hands and biting his lower lip in agitation.

"I'll be the judge of that," Sherlock said, in his most autocratic voice. Then he laid her on the bed and undid the tie to her dressing-gown.

"I say, is it really necessary to touch her in so...intimate a manner?" Sir Thomas bleated as he hurried up to the pair of them, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. "Surely there is some medicine you can dose her with? Or, or something I can do to -"

Sherlock and Molly turned equally withering stares on the man, who moved back a step before coming to a stubborn stop. Perhaps he'd finally recalled that he was the supposed master of this house.

"The preferred treatment for female hysteria is to bring about an hysterical paroxysm via direct pelvic stimulation," Sherlock replied crisply. He raised an eyebrow. "Are you capable of performing this highly specialized medical treatment?"

Sir Thomas shook his head and folded his hands behind his back while Molly bit her lip in an obvious attempt to keep herself from laughing aloud at her husband's ignorance. How she had managed two entire months of marriage to such a man without stabbing him in the hand (or elsewhere) with a fork was beyond his ken.

"Lady Molly, it is vital to the treatment that you be restrained," Sherlock said, turning his attention back where it should be - to the woman in his arms. Swiftly removing the tie to her dressing-gown, he held it suggestively in his hands. "You understand, of course."

Now she was biting her lip to hold back an entirely different sort of reaction; he could see the heat in her eyes and knew that the trembling in her limbs was not out of fear or outrage...but desire. The same desire that coursed through his own veins like molten lava. Although he'd initially intended only to persuade her to come to 'his' medical offices (and then to further persuade her to nullify her unfortunate marriage), now...now he had other plans.

Plans which his good friend, the real Doctor John Watson, would no doubt berate him for most insistently, were he to be privy to them.

"What, what do you intend to do to me, 'Doctor'?" Molly asked as he tenderly placed the strip of fabric around her wrists and drew her arms over her head. the slight stutter in her voice was not born of nerves but of further arousal. The question was disingenuous, for he could see that she knew exactly what he intended. He watched as her eyes darted to the nervously pacing form of her husband, and Sherlock gave a slight nod - both of approval for her quick wittedness, and of confirmation that she'd deduced him correctly.

A quick dart of her tongue over her lips, a heated stare, and he allowed another grin to spread across his lips as he fastened the other end of the ties to the brass headboard. "Lady Molly, as your husband claims - and as I have just witnessed - you are in need of immediate medical attention. He believes that your peculiarities must be tamed, your temper calmed, and your willfulness subdued. I am here to provide you with exactly what you need in order to accomplish one goal: to improve your quality of life and bring you to a permanent state of personal happiness and contentment."

He did not ask for her permission; it had already been granted through that wordless understanding they'd once shared and had now rekindled. She had studied the current medical treatment for female hysteria and therefore knew as much about - if not more - than he did.

That both of them considered it so much falderal was entirely beside the point in this particular moment.

"Sir Thomas, if you would kindly close and lock the door?" he called over his shoulder as he removed his body from where it had been covering hers and sat next to her on the bed. "Do I need to restrain your nether limbs, my lady?" he asked in a soft purr as Sir Thomas hastened to do as he'd been bid.

She shook her head, lowering her gaze demurely. The soft click of the lock being engaged captured neither her attention nor that of her erstwhile doctor. Nor did they take notice of the sound of Sir Thomas' hesitant shuffling steps as he approached the foot of the bed and took up a watchful stance there.

After all, both inhabitants of the bed had their own, not dissimilar, reasons for wishing The Idiot to remain. A lesson in how to truly please a woman might not go entirely over his head.

"Are you certain that this will cure what ails my wife?" the other man asked, eyes darting anxiously from one to the other. He remained oblivious of the undertones, of the electricity sparking between the two people now occupying his wife's bed. "Will this treatment help her with her failings as a wife - not that they're your fault, my darling," he added hastily when she turned her glare upon him. "You cannot help your upbringing, of course, coming from such common roots…"

"Sir Thomas, do shut up," Sherlock snapped, unable to bear the sound of the man's voice one second longer. "I require utter silence from you from now on," he added smoothly when he reared back in offence. "Part of the treatment, you know."

"Ahh, yes of course-er," Sir Thomas broke off and nodded vigorously, his eyes veritably glued to the pair on the bed.

Without breaking eye contact with Molly, Sherlock removed his coat, laying it casually across his lap. He held up one arm, undoing the cuff links and rolling the sleeve deliberately up to a point just below his elbow. He did the same for the other sleeve, carefully placing the cuff links in his waistcoat pocket.

"Now, my lady," he said in a velvety purr when he'd completed these actions, "shall we begin your...treatment?"

Molly's response was a breathless nod, her chest heaving in a most intoxicating manner. She was uncorseted, clad only in her ruffled dressing-gown and virginal white night-dress. After pushing aside the former, Sherlock slid one hand up her leg, being sure to slide the latter up well past the top of her thigh. A slight gasp escaped both Molly and Sir Thomas' lips at the same time, but Sherlock concentrated his attention on his 'patient'.

If only he'd thought to do so earlier in their relationship, it might not have come to this subterfuge. The fact that she was willingly abetting him, however, gave him hopes that it wasn't entirely too late.

"As I have already explained, Lady Molly," he said, keeping his voice to the dark rumble he knew she found most arousing, "the aim of today's session is to bring about an hysterical paroxysm via the method of pelvic massage. Do you understand?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, circling his fingers lightly along the top of her thigh. She wore no undergarments, and knew his teasing touch was just beyond where she most longed to feel him.

She nodded, cheeks pinkening, teeth nipping at her bottom lip, and shifted her hips just the slightest bit. Everything else faded from his consciousness: he no longer registered the presence of the other man, the features of the room or even the time of day. The only thing left was his hand on Molly's thigh and the woman herself. He focused every ounce of his considerable intellect on her and her alone - and found it not the least bit difficult to do so.

He leaned forward, lowering his head so that his lips brushed her ear. "And now," he murmured lowly, "I shall relieve you of the many stresses, frustrations and irritations you have endured these past two months - and I can assure you, it is my intention that you not suffer them ever again."

"If that is the case, Doctor, then I will offer no further resistance," she said with a tender smile.

He met it with one of his own, only barely stopping himself from clasping her hand in his and pressing a kiss to her palm. She understood - she approved - she agreed!

Now it was up to him to show her exactly what he was offering her, aside from his humble self.

Her breath hitched again as his fingers trailed beneath the delicate fabric that modestly - albeit barely - covered her sex. She was already dewy with want - a state which her husband undoubtedly would find himself unfamiliar with should he ever bother to check - and the slight tremble in her limbs was as unmistakable as it was arousing. He shifted slightly to ease the growing tightness in his trousers, glancing down to ensure that - yes, his neatly folded coat did indeed hide any evidence of his own, erm, personal interest in his actions.

Thus reassured, he returned his focus to Molly Hooper - now Lady Molly Milverton. But not, he was determined, for long. With multiple goals firmly in hand - as it were - he returned his fingers to their light stroking of Molly's soft upper thigh. With the other hand he reached down and boldly grasped one breast through the fine batiste of her night-gown. In anticipation of Sir Thomas' imminent protest - revealed by the slightest intake of breath - he said in his most professorly voice, "Direct physical stimulation of the mammaries via the medium of the female breasts is a proven ancillary method of preventing hysterical outbursts. Especially if the nipple is directly vitalized...thusly."

He pinched his fingers together, as much to keep back Molly's evident giggles at his pseudo-scientific quackery as to bring about the much more desired effect of further arousing her. It worked on both levels, much to his satisfaction. And since Sir Thomas could not, at this time, see his expression, he allowed a smile to quirk the corners of his lips as Molly made a soft 'Ohhh' and squirmed beneath his touch.

His other hand was not idle, having inched further beneath her night-gown, his thumb stroking the outer lips of her sex, the tip of one finger just barely flicking against her hidden pearl of pleasure.

He nearly let out a snort of derision aimed at himself for such coyness. The technical term was the clitoris. Yes, some inner cynical voice responded. And it is your penis that is throbbing so painfully in your trousers. Stop analyzing and get on with it, man!

"The key to bringing about the desired result is, of course, proper technique," he said, as much to silence his inner critic as to (one could only hope) educate Molly's soon-to-be former spouse in how to please a woman. Miss Hawkins, at the very least, might someday benefit from such instruction. "Pelvic massage must be performed delicately." He slid his fingers up the wet seam of Molly's sex. "Carefully." He teased her clitoris with his thumb. "At least at first."

He smiled at Molly as she trembled beneath his careful ministrations. "Once you have brought the subject to the proper level of preparedness, then you must become...firmer." He slipped both fingers inside, feeling her muscles clenching around the digits as the pooling moisture slicked the way for more aggressive movements. "Continued stimulation of the breasts, as I've already demonstrated, will aid in bringing about the desired result." He pinched each nipple between the fingers of his free hand, first the left, then the right, tugging and teasing at them through the lightweight material of her night-dress.

"Yes, ahh, I, ahem, I see," Sir Thomas stammered, keeping his voice low - but Sherlock was not unaware of the way the man was shifting from foot to foot, and allowed himself a secretive smile, to be shared only with Molly.

"The movements must be regular, and you must watch the patient carefully for signs that the treatment is working. Note the flushed cheeks, the slight movements of the hips, the way her hands are clenching and unclenching even though bound above her head." Sherlock matched actions to words, his fingers rubbing with more urgency against Molly's slick interior, building the friction that would soon bring her to completion. "The increased breathing is another sign that the treatment is working, and of course you've noted the pulse throbbing in her neck. Were I to lay a hand here…" Sherlock's hand hovered over the left side of Molly's chest. . "...you would feel the speed at which her heart is beating." He lowered the appendage slowly, with deliberation, and rested his palm on her breast, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over the hard peak of her nipple.

He slid the hand down to her hip, tugging her legs further apart and making sure that Sir Thomas had a clear view of her glistening sex, that he could see 'Doctor Watson's' fingers pumping in and out of her. He brought his other hand down, rubbing her clitoris until it peaked beneath his fingers into a hard little nub. He pressed ever deeper with the fingers of his other hand, until he found the spongy softness that the real John Watson had whispered about one drinks-fueled evening a few weeks after his wedding. Stimulating that spot, he'd advised Sherlock with a self-satisfied smirk, had a most salutary effect on the new Mrs. Watson - and Sherlock was keen to discover if his friend was simply exaggerating his own prowess.

Judging by Molly's cries of pleasure, the way her sex was spasming about his fingers, the gush of slick wetness now coating his fingers, John had been nothing but truthful. In vino veritas, indeed.

Only when the last shudder had eased did he remove his hands from her body, being sure to wipe his fingers on his pocket handkerchief before gently pulling her gown back down her legs. There was a light blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed; he pulled it up and laid it across her before reaching down to take her hand tenderly in his. "When you are quite recovered, I would be pleased if you would join me in my consulting rooms," he said. "We will need to discuss future treatments, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," she said, but her expression had sobered, and Sherlock saw her eyes flick toward her husband, who was blustering in the background about 'what future treatments' and 'I will be the judge of what's necessary for my wife' and other such nonsense. "I will join you as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements."

"Excellent." Giving in to his own need, Sherlock swooped down and pressed a claiming kiss to her lips before jumping to his feet, catching up his suit jacket before it slipped to the floor. "Well, Sir Thomas, I hope you were paying attention - and if you weren't, then I hope the next Mrs. Milverton will be willing to point out your deficiencies in the marital bed."

Whistling a sprightly tune, he exited the bedroom, confident that Molly would be able to explain things to poor Sir Thomas in simple enough terms that even a man of his monumental stupidity would be able to grasp their meaning.

 **oOo**

Two hours later, his landlady admitted a new client to his Baker Street digs. "Lady Milverton to see you, Sherlock," she said, ushering a smiling Molly into his presence. "The poor dear needs your assistance in a matter of some delicacy." She gave Molly's hand an encouraging squeeze as Sherlock rose to his feet and gave a slight bow of greeting. "Some men just don't realize what they stand to lose when they forget to treat their wives with the proper respect," Mrs. Hudson sniffed as she bustled off to fetch the tea things.

"Some men," Sherlock agreed softly, "are fools."

Molly stepped up to him, laid her hand over his thundering heart. "Some men are," she agreed. "But some men learn from their mistakes."

"I am so very grateful that I managed to become such a man despite myself," Sherlock said, taking her hands in his.

"As am I," Molly said with another smile, allowing him to pull her into his arms for a lingering kiss - the first of many they would share through their long, happy lives together.

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 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, follow and review. You guys rock!_


	7. Incredible

_For WritingWife83. Rated K+ and nothing but fluff. I hope you enjoy this as much as I always enjoy your reviews!_

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Incredible doesn't begin to describe the spectacle before Molly Hooper's eyes. And yet, it's the only one she can think of at the moment. "You did all this…for me?" she says, eyes wide with wonder as she gazes around the pots and pots of exotic blooms covering her countertops…the dining room table, and sideboard…the coffee table in her living room…the side table by the front door…and the hands of one Consulting Detective.

"You love flowers, but you prefer live ones to cut, since you're around death all day at the morgue," he says rapidly, fingers twitching a bit in what she recognizes as nervousness rather than impatience. "You wish you had more but you never seem to find the time to get out to shop for them, so I…" He lets go with one hand, gestures at the ground floor of her flat. "I do owe you an apology, after all."

She steps toward him. Takes the miniature rose bush out of his hands (it's blooms are a delicate shade of pink that goes well with her gran's depression glass collection). Places it carefully in the sink, since he's left no other options.

He follows her movements, swallowing as she turns back to him. Walks up again.

Takes him in her arms, gently, lovingly, and hugs him. "Thank you," she whispers against his shoulder, since his ear is too high to reach without getting up on her toes. "You didn't have to. You already explained about your sister. And I've already forgiven you."

His hold on her his is tentative, but suddenly he's hugging her so close she can scarcely breathe. "As long as you haven't forgiven me for lying," he says.

Startled she looks up at him, brow furrowing, but whatever she might have been about to say dies on her lips at the tender expression on his face. "I love you, Molly Hooper," he says quietly, his hands coming up to cradle her face. "And I'm very glad you made me say it first."

He leans down, intention very clear, and Molly smiles as his lips meet hers.

Incredible isn't the word for it, but once again, it's the only one that comes to mind.


	8. I Ship It

_A/N: Theladydetective on tumblr is grieving the loss of a loved one and asked for sherlolly or destiel fanfics. This K+ rated ficlet was inspired by that ask and offered in sympathy._

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"I ship them," Molly said, apropos of nothing.

Or rather, apropos of nothing Sherlock could figure out. Not that her sentence made sense in any context, but he dutifully looked up to see what he could deduce before responding to her (ridiculously puzzling) statement.

She was watching telly, that frankly ridiculous American series about angels and demons and urban legends that seemed to have been on for roughly the length of the Middle Ages if not longer.

Other than that, there didn't seem to be anything about which she _could_ be speaking, so… "You do what to whom?" he asked, knowing he wouldn't care about the answer, that it might lead to even more confusion, but willing to brave the nonsensical world of American telly if only to make his girlfriend happy.

One thing Sherlock Holmes never shirked at, was making sure his girlfriend was happy. Having been forced to admit - to realize - that he loved her once, he would never be caught flat-footed again. Not when it came to Molly Hooper.

"Them," she replied, eyes still glued (figuratively speaking of course) to the screen across which a pair of men were currently running, being chased by - he squinted doubtfully - some sort of monster. "Destiel. I ship them."

"And by that you mean…?"

"I think they make a cute couple. Romantically."

"Which one is Destiel?" he asked, resigned to this being one of their longer, more convoluted - ant ultimately pointless except for the fact that he loved learning new things about Molly - conversations.

She giggled and finally looked at him, tugging on his hand so that he (very willingly) budged over to sit closer to her. Close enough to put his arm around her and feel her snuggle up against his side. Mmm, bliss, that feeling. A shame he'd taken so long to discover that fact.

"Destiel is the ship name. It's a combination of Catstiel and Dean." She nodded at the screen. "Those two." She let out a happy sigh, which he flattered himself was at least partly due to how comfortably she fit under his arm. "If we were a ship, I wonder what people would call us."

'Ship' he'd ascertained from the context to be a shortening of the term 'relationship' and thus he answered her (probably rhetorical but he was Sherlock Holmes, after all, and thus a complete show off) promptly. "Mollock."

She screwed up her face in an expression of distaste. "Eww," she said, completely unnecessarily since he got the point that she didn't like his choice. "Makes us sound like a couple of clams."

"Well, we are happy as clams, aren't we?" he asked, keeping his voice light to cover up the fact that he would always carry a low level of anxiety deep within his gut, worry that he wasn't good enough for her, that she'd realize what a mistake she'd made in falling in love with him and finally fall out, leaving him bereft and lonely for the rest of his life…

"Of course we are, silly," Molly replied, her gaze softening as she pulled him down for a gentle, loving kiss. "But why Mollock?"

"Well, it stands to reason that the most important person in the relationship be named first," he replied, after kissing her again. "Otherwise I'd have said Sherlolly."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Molly said indignantly, sitting up and giving him her sternest look. "That is ridiculous. It's a relationship, not a contest. You're just as important to me as I am to you!"

"Then I suppose we'll just have to live without a ship name - unless," he added uncertainly, "you'd like something along the lines of…Holmes and Holmes?"

"Don't you mean Hooper and Ho–oh!" she exclaimed as the penny dropped. "Sherlock, did you just propose?"

He tilted his head to one side, replaying the conversation in his mind before answering. "Yes," he finally said, looking back down at her with a smile. "I am."

"There's just one problem with that," Molly said, her small grin telling him he had no reason to be worried in spite of her words.

"That being?" he asked as she once again moved into the circle of his embrace.

Her response was delayed by another tender kiss. When she finally spoke, he could do nothing but chuckle in agreement as she whispered in his ear, "I'm keeping my name."

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 _End note: If you're on tumblr, I'm sure theladydetective would love to hear from you. Thank you as always for reading and reviewing._


	9. Scared Sheetless

_A/N: This rated T ficlet started life on tumblr as a snippet of an otherwise unwritten fic, which I've expanded a bit. It still starts in the middle, as it were, but basically John and Mary Watson are ghosts unhappy that Sherlock Holmes has taken up residence in their house - keeping bees (which John is allergic to!) and stinking up the place with cigarette smoke (doesn't he know those things'll kill him?) and being an all around arse. Worst of all, he's recently allowed his fake fiancee (not that she knows he's only engaged to her for a case) to (shudder) redecorate in a tasteless avante-garde style. They're contacted by a ghost named Moriarty who claims to be an expert at getting rid of the living but quickly learn he's actually Sherlock's enemy seeking vengeance and send him packing...or do they?_

 _Enjoy, and thank you as always for your marvelous, day-making reviews!_

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"You know," Mary said tentatively when John had fallen into a brooding silence, "he's not so bad." John cocked his head inquisitively. "Sherlock, I mean."

Her husband gave her a disbelieving look. "Are you mad? He's a complete tit!"

"Not when Molly's around," Mary reminded him.

"True." John's expression turned thoughtful. "The thing is, she's not the one who lives here, in our house. He is." He shook his head regretfully. "If it wasn't for the fact that he's a vengeful psycho, I'd have let that bastard Moriarty-"

Mary instantly clapped her hand over her husband's mouth. "Don't say his name," she hissed, eyes darting around the attic room suspiciously. "Seriously. Don't. Ever." She shuddered. "Not even Sherlock's dickishness is worse than having that little toe-rag in our house. And if he was here when Molly was around-!"

John blanched, then nodded. "Yeah, you're right." He spun the model of the London Eye with one desultory finger. "Still, if I have to hear one more lecture about how we're nothing but figments of his overactive imagination due to lack of proper stimulus, I swear I'll…"

Mary didn't let him finish that sentence, having heard it all before. "Well, Molly believes we're real." She put out her hand to rest on his, only to watch in shock as her fingers passed through his spiritual 'flesh'. "John?" she tried to say, only to hear...nothing.

Her husband's eyes widened in alarm and he reached out for her as she began to fade into nothingness before his very eyes. "Mary!"

Before he could do more than take a single step forward, he, too began to dissolve into the aether, with absolutely no idea what might happen next.

 **oOo**

Molly watched in shock as John and Mary Watson flickered into existence, filling out the wedding clothes Sherlock's fake fiancee Janine had so gleefully produced from the unused guest room where Sherlock had stored them upon purchasing the house. She was the only one besides Molly who'd believed that John and Mary were actual ghosts and not hallucinations, cunning special effects or drug-induced visions.

Yup, judging by Sherlock's expression of open-mouthed shock and Mycroft's bulging eyes, neither of them had expected anything to come of this little seance Janine had put together after stealing the _Handbook for the Recently Deceased_ from John and Mary. Nor should Mycroft have allowed himself to be cajoled into reciting the incantation for summoning ghosts that had been included in its pages.

 _So much for 'no such things as ghosts',_ she thought sourly as the Watsons materialized inside their wedding clothes, which had been laid out on Sherlock's acid-scarred dining table-the one piece of furniture he hadn't allowed Janine to modernize.

As Molly watched, she realized with horror that materializing wasn't all that was happening to John and Mary. "Stop it!" she cried out, taking a step forward as she saw the two ghosts start to visibly age before her eyes. "You're killing them!" She turned to Mycroft. "Fix this!" she demanded.

For once the imperturbable iceman was flustered. "I don't know how," he spluttered as he flipped frantically through the book.

Molly's eyes filled with tears as she John and Mary took on the look of a pair of recently exhumed mummies, their shoes slipping off their feet and clothes falling loose about them as they literally shriveled up and started to decompose - _to die?_ \- right in front of them all.

Janine, the ninny, was screaming; Sherlock appeared frozen with disbelief, and Mycroft was still frantically paging through the book. She nodded. Right; up to her, then. Turning on her heels, she sprinted into the dining room where the miniature London had been set up, calling out "Moriarty!"

He looked up at her from where he sat atop the London Eye model John had just completed,, elaborately peeling a teensy apple and looking completely bored. "Sorry, sweetheart, nothing I can do to help your friends."

"Liar," Molly said, pointing a shaking finger at him. "You know you can help them."

He jumped to his feet and squinted up at her, ignoring the slight rocking of the model as he did so. "And you know what you have to do to get me out of this stupid miniature hell. _Say my name, say my name,_ " he warbled, horribly off-key. "And then marry me so I can stay in the mortal world permanently."

"What? No!" Molly cried out, taking an inadvertent step backward.

He shrugged, tucked his hands into his front pockets and looked nonchalantly at the tips of his well-polished shoes. "Then I guess John and Mary die...that's what people do, after all. Die. The thing is, some deaths you can't come back from."

He grinned unpleasantly up at her, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Molly knew what she had to do. "All right," she replied, squaring her shoulders and looking directly down at him. "You have a deal."

He pulled his hands out and clapped gleefully. "Go on, baby, do what you gotta do!"

"Moriarty." Molly squeezed her eyes shut as she said his name. "Moriarty." She opened them and looked back at him. "Moriarty."

Suddenly the dead man was standing directly in front of her, larger than life and twice as maniacal as she'd seen him before. Rubbing his hands together gleefully he said, "Showtime!" and dragged her by the hand into the front parlor.

 **oOo**

John and Mary stared in horror as Moriarty appeared, a frightened-looking but very determined Molly Hooper by his side. "Oh Molly," John tried to say, only to have his lower jaw fall off. He caught it in one hand and fixed it back into place as best he could. "We're not worth this!"

"Ooh, you've looked better, Johnny boy," Moriarty said, oozing false sympathy. "Time for this little party to end, don't you think?" With that he pulled a revolver out of his suit pocket, pointed it directly at John and Mary, and, without so much as putting his finger on the trigger, shouted "BANG!"

They vanished, the wedding clothes dropping onto the table while everyone gaped and stared, Mycroft clutching the book to his chest, Janine, clutching onto Sherlock's arm (and Sherlock shaking himself free with a look of absolute disdain before returning his attention to the tableau before them).

Sherlock straightened his cuffs, deliberately stepping forward and staring at the madman with the gun. "So. The notorious James Moriarty, reduced to playing parlor tricks at house parties," he sneered. "Fantastic job. How _did_ you fake your death, by the way?"

Moriarty swaggered up to him, still holding tightly to Molly's arm. "Didn't," he replied succinctly, turning so that Sherlock could see the horrible mess that was the back of his head, brains and blood oozing out theatrically. "I died, you didn't, and now it's time to even the scales once again." His eyes glittered dangerously. "And our little Mollywobble's gonna help keep me in the land of the living so I can let _you_ find out what it's like on the other side - if you think being alive is boring, wait until _you're_ the ghost!"

Molly could see that Moriarty's head wound had unsettled Sherlock even more than the sight of the Watsons' materializing and decomposing had. "I'm sorry Sherlock," she said. "But I had to save John and Mary."

"Hmm, not sure you've managed that since they appear to have been banished again," Sherlock shot back, but at least he was acknowledging that they'd actually been there. That they were - or had been - _real_.

"They're fine, buttercup," Moriarty said before she could ask him where they'd gone. "Safe and sound as any pair of ghosts could be." He turned his attention back to Sherlock, still smiling that mad, mad smile. "And soon enough, we'll be married and I'll be able to go another round or seven with Sherly here."

"Absolutely not, you wanker!" Molly turned in surprise, as did Moriarty, at the sound of John's voice from behind them. "Moriarty!" he called out in a firm voice.

Snarling with anger, the ghost threw one arm out in a violent gesture; out of nowhere, a metal plate slammed into John's mouth, bolting his lips shut before he could say the name a second time.

Molly, Sherlock and the others stood frozen at the spectacle before them.

"Moriarty!" Mary called out, quick to take up her husband's attempts at banishment. "Moriarty!" she cried again. "Mor–"

Before she could speak the fateful third repetition of his name, he snapped his fingers…

….and the ghost of Mary Watson vanished.

"Now," Moriarty said, gleefully rubbing his hands together, "where were we? Oh yes, a wedding!"

With another snap of his fingers Molly suddenly skidded at inhuman speed across the room, arms flailing, terrified cries escaping her lips until she found herself at Moriarty's side. No longer wearing her sensible khakis, colorful blouse or cherry-bedecked cardigan, she was now dressed in a tight black dress with a plunging neckline and restrictingly tight, ankle-length skirt.

Sherlock was able to take but a single step forward before he found himself trapped by one of Janine's hideous attempts at sculpture. Of the sculptress herself, there was no sign; she'd run screaming out into the night at some point, which was probably for the best. "Molly!" he cried out, struggling futilely within his bronze bonds. If looks could kill - and if Moriarty weren't already dead - his glare would have melted the ghost into a puddle.

Mycroft had turned and began tiptoeing toward the door, mobile in hand as he attempted to call for help, only to find himself suddenly immobilized in the middle of a spotlight. As he gazed into the crazed ghost's eyes, he felt his expensive three-piece suit ripped from his body, leaving him not clothed in only his underthings as expected - but instead wearing instead a garish clown costume, including bulbous red nose and oversized shoes. He screamed and dropped the mobile as his most unsettling nightmare seemed to be coming true, bolting in a blind panic out of the house and into the night.

Meanwhile Moriarty had snapped his fingers again, and the living room was transformed into an even more horrifying monstrosity than Janine's attempts at avante-garde cutting edge decor: the fireplace became a gateway to hell and Culverton Smith appeared in a puff of smoke, holding an enormous tome in his gnarled, claw-like hands. "Do you, James Moriarty, take this mortal woman, Molly Hooper, to be your wife?"

He tilted his head to one side as if considering the question, then grinned maniacally and said, "I do!"

When Molly, still reeling from the evening's frantic and horrifying events, struggled to pull away and shook her head, Moriarty slapped a hand over her mouth; she felt a heavy weight settle on each ankle and looked down to see manacles now bolted her to the floor.. "She does," he said tersely. "Right, pumpkin?" He placed his head next to hers, "I sure do, sweetcakes," he said, speaking in Molly's voice. "Gosh I love that man of mine!"

Smith giggled and flipped a page in his book. "You may place the ring on her finger."

Moriarty patted his suit pockets and muttered to himself. "The ring, the ring, where did I put that…oh yes!" He pulled a withered, mummified finger from his breast pocket; Molly blanched and pulled away. "She didn't mean anything to me, I swear," Moriarty said as he tugged the gold ring free of the hideous appendage. He grabbed Molly's hand and made to shove the ring onto her finger after dropping the gruesome body part onto the floor.

Just as he began to slip it onto her finger, Sherlock began laughing. With a scowl, Moriarty turned to face his former - and still mortal - enemy. "What?" he demanded. "What's so funny now?"

Still chortling, Sherlock said, "You made a mistake, Moriarty. And it will cost you everything."

"And what mistake might that be?"

"You sent the wrong Watson to the Other Side," Sherlock replied, nodding at something just over Moriarty's shoulder.

The ghost turned just in time for John Watson to land a truly spectacular blow to his chin. It sent him spinning away from Molly…

…and right into the jaws of the Sandworm the newly-manifested Mary Watson was riding.

His screams rang through the house long after he and the Sandworm had both vanished from view.

Within seconds, Molly's bonds had been destroyed, John's metal muzzle had vanished, Culverton Smith had returned to wherever he'd been summoned from, and the statues imprisoning Sherlock had loosened its inanimate grip. He rushed to Molly's side, grasping her arms and staring into her eyes. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I, I think so," she said. She blinked a few times, looking dazed but no longer terrified. "Is he gone for good?"

"Yes," Mary reassured her. Then she smirked at her husband, who was still gaping at her in a combination of awe and consternation. "Terrifying skill set, remember?" she said, giving him a nudge with her white lace clad elbow.'

"Remind me never to get on your bad side again," he finally said before pulling her into his arms and snogging her senseless.

"That," Sherlock said as he nodded at the oblivious undead couple, "seems like a very good idea, wouldn't you say, Molly?"

"But what about your fake fiancee?" Molly asked sweetly. "Won't Janine be upset to find you kissing another woman?"

"Since she's the one who got us all into this mess in the first place by stealing that book," Sherlock grumbled, "she can bloody well live with the consequences." He gazed deeply into Molly's eyes. "I am sorry, Molly Hooper. Please forgive me - and before you ask me to say it first, I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered, finally melting into his arms as they shared the most passionate kiss either had ever experienced.

* * *

 _End note: The title is from the wikipedia article on Beetlejuice and was just too darn good NOT to use:_ Warner Bros. disliked the title _Beetlejuice_ and wanted to call the film _House Ghosts_. As a joke, Burton suggested the name _Scared Sheetless_ and was horrified when the studio actually considered using it.


	10. One Perfect Christmas

_One Perfect Christmas (After Three Not-So-Hot Ones)_

 _Rated K, for thetranslucentwallaby on tumblr for the Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018. Enjoy!_

* * *

The first Christmas Molly Hooper ever spent with Sherlock Holmes quite frankly - and not to put too fine a line on it - stunk.

On ice.

Oh, he apologized and kissed her cheek (causing her inner teenager to almost swoon with giddy happiness), but then his phone moaned and her mortification was right back, reddening her cheeks and causing her to blurt out that it wasn't her.

As if anyone thought a mere kiss from Sherlock could wring a moan out of her!

Well, actually, yes, they probably did, but that was beside the point.

The next Christmas she spent with him was, um, a bit...weird. Especially since he was, technically speaking, dead, and she was, technically speaking, attending a conference in Paris. Still, it was kind of nice, the two of them being in the same place at the same time, with that time coinciding with Christmas. Mycroft had tasked her with passing Sherlock some vital information regarding Moriarty's activities in the City of Light; she'd managed that task with no problem then spent a congenial few minutes with Sherlock before he had to dash off again.

She could still taste the cinnamon almonds they'd shared on the Rue de Rennes before he'd dipped his head to murmur a brief "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," and brushed his lips against her cheek before ducking off into the crowds of shoppers.

It was probably just as well she was already dating Tom at that point or she might have done something to embarrass herself.

Or was it, too _bad_ she was already dating Tom?

Ah well, nothing to do about missed opportunities, especially ones that would likely have only led to awkward speeches about one of them being married to his work and the other one needing to get back to London and (probably) being deduced to within an inch of her life. Again.

Nope, no need for a repeat of _that_ sort of experience.

She was actually thankful to miss out on dinner at his family's home the first Christmas after his return from the dead; his return to drugs ("for a case!") and then the whole Magnussen thing… No, it was just well that she'd been forced to decline his mother and father's invitation to join them. Someone had to cover the Christmas shift and then the fake Moriarty broadcast had happened and then...and then…

And then Mary's death. Sherlock's descent into drugs yet again. John's anger and bitterness and depression. The year from hell, topped off with a phone call from hell and all of it - every single moment, including manipulations that caused Mary's death at the hands of Vivian Norbury, all brought about by one person.

Eurus Holmes.

Because of _course_ Sherlock and Mycroft would have a Secret Evil Sister. If anyone would, it would be the pair of them. And of _course_ she would take over the Sinister Island Prison and make John and Mycroft and Sherlock jump through deadly hoops. And of _course_ she would involve Molly in her machinations.

Only to spare her, in the end, after wrenching that confession out of her by means of Sherlock. Using him as the weapon and their friendship as the target.

No, Eurus had known exactly what she was doing by not actually blowing up Molly's flat after forcing Sherlock to make that phone call. Why blow someone's flat apart when you can blow their life apart instead?

Only...that wasn't how it had worked out. For once, the great, troubled mind of Eurus Holmes had miscalculated. Made a mistake. Instead of destroying a friendship she'd made it stronger. Instead of a fake "I love you" she'd wrenched a true confession out of her brother's heart and lips.

And now, this Christmas, the first Molly and Sherlock would be spending together as romantic partners, the first Christmas they would wake up together and open presents and eat with friends and family...it was perfect. Perfection born out of despair and horror, out of love and hope and years of devotion.

Not even Eurus Holmes could shake that devotion, no matter how hard she tried.

Molly smiled to herself as she opened the door to 221B using her key, the one Sherlock had pressed into her hands weeks ago, the one that hung on the keychain next to the one for her own flat.

Despite her best efforts, Eurus had failed, and Molly couldn't be happier.

"Ah, Molly, there you are."

Sherlock was standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling down at her as she closed the door behind her. Laughing, she tilted her head up as he crossed the small distance between them and took her in his arms.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he murmured before lowering his mouth to hers for a warm, lingering kiss.

Merry Christmas, indeed.


	11. A Fine Mess

_What if Mary never sent DVDs? A (very) dark look at S4 post TST. Rated a hard T for_ _Bad Language and_ _mentions of sex and drugs. Also infidelity._

* * *

"John asked me to marry him."

Deep in the throes of his latest cocaine high, combined with post-coital comedown, Sherlock pauses in the act of reaching for a cigarette, not sure he's hearing her correctly. "What?"

Molly, lying next to him, naked and sweaty, her hair a tangled mess from their lovemaking, says, "You heard me. John asked me to marry him today. Gimme a drag."

Dumbly he hands her the cig and the lighter, watching as she flicks on the flame and takes a slow puff before handing both items back to him. "John. John Watson?"

She nods, still not looking at him. "I said yes, of course. For Rosie's sake. Someone of the three of us needs to act like a fucking adult."

Well, yes, that's true but it's Sherlock's opinion that John's the one who should be making that choice, not Molly. Molly, who's now picking idly at her thumbnail...and still not looking at him. "This didn't just come out of nowhere," he says slowly, reasoning it out as best he can considering his altered state of consciousness. Plus, of course, the sex. Shouldn't Molly not be having sex with him if she's marrying John? If she's dating John? Why didn't he know she's dating John?

He realizes he's asked these questions aloud only when Molly answers him, her voice hard-edged and aiming for uncaring...but he knows better. The problem isn't that she doesn't care, it's that she cares too damn much for her own good. Else she'd have pitched him - and John - to the curb years ago.

"Because you've been too wrapped up in your own misery, too busy fast-tracking toward death with all the shit you've been taking, to notice what's going on around you." As if he needs a reminder, she jerks a thumb toward his bedside table where the razor blade and other paraphernalia of his drugs habit still sit. "You and John are both drowning in guilt and self-pity and Rosie's the one who's suffering for it."

"You haven't minded my self-pity," he snarks back, doing his best to ignore the sting of guilt that clenches his stomach at the mention of Rosie. Some godfather she ended up with. "Not since it means I'm willing to fuck you."

She looks at him finally, a flat, unfriendly look as she tugs the sheets up to cover her breasts. "Tell us another one," she scoffs. "You've wanted to get a leg over since the day we met, but you were too fucking scared to admit it. Too scared I'd want more, that I'd distract you from 'The Work'."

She doesn't make air quotes but he gets the point. "True." There's no point in lying to her, not when she's proven over and over again how well she can see him. "But I still don't understand why you're sleeping with me if you're marrying John. How long have you two been dating, anyway?" Jealousy stings and burns, making him itch for another high, maybe the heroin this time. It's this and the tiniest kernel of hurt and betrayal that he doesn't want to admit to that causes him to add in his nastiest tones, "So this is , what, a last-time, pity-fuck before you marry my best friend?"

"Former best friend," she corrects him with what can only be deliberate cruelty, reaching out and snagging the cigarette from his lips and placing it between her own. "We've been dating, if you can call it that, for about a month now, and no, this is not a pity-fuck and no, it's not a last-time thing. I told you, I'm marrying him for Rosie, not because I'm in love with him. I'm in love with you," she adds, once again tilting his world on its axis.

Oh, he's always known she was keen on him, but love? It doesn't seem possible, especially now. But she said 'I'm in love' not 'I was in love' or 'I used to be in love' and so, even now with all his faults and his downward spiral after Mary's death...she still loves him.

It doesn't seem possible, but Molly Hooper is no liar. Not unless lives are at stake, as they had been when he'd taken her into his confidence before his fake suicide. Then again, lives are at stake now, aren't they? His definitely, John's probably and Rosie's if no one steps in and puts her first, which is something at which Molly excels.

His head aches just trying to deduce her and again he longs for the blissful blankness of heroin singing and stinging through his veins but he needs to be as clear-headed as he can manage right now.

So he studies her as she continues to puff away on his cigarette, her eyes closed, the top sheet of his bed loosely draped over her bare breasts. He can see the faint mark of a love-bite just above her nipple and the streaks of drying sweat along her brow, the tangled mass of her hair...Molly Hooper never looked better to him, and he fights the urge to wrestle her back under the blankets and fuck her senseless again.

What the hell was wrong with him, that it had taken him so long to see her as clearly as she's always seen him? He should have realized it was no mere schoolgirl crush, her feelings for him, long before Moriarty. Certainly before his return from the dead, when she was so keen on proving she'd moved on with her life. Only she hadn't really moved on, and he'd been a blind fool not to recognize that. And he hadn't had the drugs as an excuse then, just self-pity. Poor Sherlock, finally got his head out of his arse only the girl's gone and got herself a fiance with a dog and parents and pub nights and he's left behind. It felt exactly like it had with John and Mary, only he hadn't ever wanted to shag John.

But he has always wanted to shag Molly; she's right about that, just like she's right about so many things. But this...no. She can't be right about this, the bombshell she's just dropped on him. Two bombshells, actually. "If you love me, why are you marrying John?" he asks, knowing how stupid the question is. She's already answered it, after all.

"For Rosie," she says patiently ( _he doesn't deserve her patience, never has, never will_ ). "And for John, a little bit. Someone needs to do something or he's going to completely self-destruct, and since his sister is a bigger mess than he is, and he won't let _you_ help him…" She shrugs. "Guess it has to be me. Short straw. Plus he's never been too hard on the eyes and he's _amazing_ at oral."

There's that malicious streak again, the one she never used to have. Sherlock's head is spinning and he lies back with a thump as he reaches up and massages his temples. "So you're sleeping with him? And with me?"

"I make him wear a condom, told him it's because I'm not interested in giving Rosie a brother or sister just yet. Not that it matters," she adds musingly. "Since I'm already pregnant."

Three bombshells. Sherlock's head isn't just spinning, it's threatening to implode. "Mine?"

She nods. "Yup. I'm about six weeks gone. John and I just started having sex two weeks ago, so I'll give it a few more weeks before I tell him."

"What, and then pass the baby off as his?" Sherlock can't hide the resentment in his voice, no matter how unjustified it is. After all, he's a bigger mess than John, wallowing in his addictions and not sure if he'll ever dig his way free - or if he actually wants to, Molly's confession of love notwithstanding. He's lost his best friend to grief and guilt and he's lost Mary to his own arrogance. At least John is in therapy again, trying to work through his depression and anger issues. Or so Molly had told him before their latest round of mattress tag.

"Don't be an idiot," she snaps. "I'll tell him the truth, of course. Tell him we worked out a shared custody agreement, sweet-talk him into letting me bring Rosie to visit when I bring the new baby round, maybe even eventually get him to be willing to forgive you. Or at least talk to you. It's not just because he blames you," she adds, reaching out and resting her hand on his. Her first gesture since this conversation began that offers some kind of hope. "He feels guilty, too. Apparently he was texting some young bint he met on the bus. Flirting with her. Said he broke it off before anything actually happened, was going to tell Mary but then it was too late." She shakes her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "He wanted to make sure I didn't think he was some perfect man, the way Mary apparently did. He wanted me to know he was human but that he wouldn't cock things up this time - his words, not mine."

"Molly, if you drop one more bombshell on me I'm gonna need something stronger than coke," he manages to say.

She glances at his bruised forearm, nearly pulls away, but instead moves closer. She rests her head on his chest and after a moment he puts his arm around her. "And that's another reason why I'm marrying John and not you," she says softly as she reaches up to intertwine their fingers. "You're always going to be looking for the next high, the next fix, whether it's drugs or a dangerous case, and as much as I would love to just say fuck it and dive right into that world with you, I can't."

All the malice and cruelty is gone, leaving nothing but the stark truth behind both emotions: she's afraid. She loves him and she's afraid of losing him and so she has to toughen herself up, put him at an emotional distance, but not for herself.

"Because of Rosie - and our baby," he says, and she nods.

"Because of Rosie and our baby," she agrees. "John is falling apart - I've heard him talking to Mary as if she's in the room with him, when he thought I was asleep. If this new therapist doesn't help him, God knows what'll happen. He needs me to be there to help pick up the pieces."

"Whereas I can pick up my own fucking pieces, apparently."

He can't help the stab of jealousy, twisting his guts and increasing the pounding in his head. He's been telling himself ever since this thing with Molly began that it was just sex, willfully ignoring both her emotional attachment and his, knowing it was going to end badly and that it would be entirely his own fault...but he never could have anticipated this. None of it.

"You're in no fit state to be a dad, Sherlock."

Her words hurt, but truth often does.

But instead of lashing out, trying to hurt her just as badly ( _and he can, he knows he can, he's done it before_ ), he says softly, "I could go to rehab."

She gives him a skeptical look, and he brushes her hair from her face. "No, I mean it," he insists. "I could be completely clean by the time the baby's born."

"You can't do this just for the baby, Sherlock," Molly says, but she's still holding his hand, still resting her head on his chest, and that means something. He feels a cautious tendril of hope. "You have to do this for _yourself_ , because _you_ want to get clean, not because you think it's what you have to do to keep me - us - in your life. I won't keep your child from you no matter how far down the rabbit-hole you tumble, I promise."

He feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with the small kernel of hope she's just offered him. "Don't marry John," he urges her, sitting up, pulling her up with him so he can peer into her eyes. "Tell him about the baby, tell him you changed your mind, that you'll still be there for Rosie, but for God's sake don't marry him."

There are tears in her eyes, and the hard veneer she's been wearing since that horrible day when John made her deliver his devastating message finally cracks. "Sherlock, I have to, I have to marry him," she cries, trying to pull out of his embrace, but he won't let her go. Won't let her leave it like this. "I said yes; if I change my mind he might, he might stop letting me see Rosie and I can't let that happen."

"He won't," Sherlock says confidently, his mind buzzing but not from the coke, no, it's the new puzzle he's been given. Not that his friends' lives are puzzles, more like a case. Yes, that's it; John is a case for him to solve. He has to save him, save him from making a bigger mess of his life than it already is in the name of grief and guilt.

He has to save them all, and if the price he has to pay is rehab, he's more than willing to pay it. "Don't marry John," he says again. "I promise he won't keep you away from Rosie. If this new therapist is any good at all he - she?" Molly nods. "...she'll help John figure out this just a rebound relationship, that he's just looking to replace Mary and give Rosie a new mum."

Images of Mary flash through his mind, and suddenly he's the one blinking away tears. Molly,, perceptive as always, holds him closer but says nothing. How, he berates himself silently, could he have ever dismissed her as ordinary? How could he have made the same mistake Moriarty had made, and not realize just how important Molly Hooper is?

"Please," he whispers, and feels her capitulation in the soft sigh of her breath as she exhales against his chest, in the way her body relaxes against his even as her fingers tighten their grip on his shoulders.

"Okay," she says quietly, and his own tension sweeps out of him with the force of a rip-tide, leaving him boneless and shaking in the aftermath of relief. "But…"

"Yes," he agrees instantly, not needing to hear anything beyond that warning 'but'. "I agree. And if I do fuck this up…" When _I fuck it up_ , he thinks but refrains from saying. "If I do, then it'll be on me and you do what you have to do to survive-no, not just survive," he interrupts himself, pulling himself up and peering into her eyes. "You do what you have to do to thrive, Molly Hooper. I'm a selfish bastard but I'm not so selfish I'd pull you down into my own personal hell any further than we've already traveled together."

"Fair enough," she replies, her voice thick as if with repressed tears. Tears she'll never let fall, at least not within his sight. Or John's, for that matter; Molly Hooper is too busy being the strong one for both of the fucked-up men in her life to allow them any sign of weakness. "We'll try to sort this mess out together, as soon as you're out of rehab." She huffs out another sigh. "Maybe by then John will have forgiven himself enough to forgive you as well."

He can hang a lifetime's worth of hope on that 'maybe'.

For now, all he can do is hold Molly tightly in his arms, breathe in her scent, and marvel at how quickly a world turned upside-down can reverse itself.


	12. Epiphany

_A/N: My 11th hour contribution to the 2018 12 Days of Sherlolly. Rated T. MCD...but you KNOW me. Let's call this one angst with a happy ending._

 _Things went wrong, and Sherlock Holmes died when he jumped from the roof of St. Barts. Or did he?_

* * *

e·piph·a·ny /əˈpifənē/ _noun_

1\. the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi (Matthew 2:1–12).

 **\- the festival commemorating the Epiphany on January 6.**

 **\- a manifestation of a divine or supernatural being.**

It's his birthday. Twelve days after another Christmas has come and gone without him. Molly draws in a shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. It's January 6, another birthday he'll never celebrate.

Because Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, is dead.

She wraps her arms around herself as she restlessly wanders her cold, empty flat. She should put up the heat, should make herself a nice cuppa, curl up under some blankets with Toby and telly and stop punishing herself like this, but she can't help it.

Sherlock Holmes is dead, and it's all her fault.

She shouldn't be blaming herself; even Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman himself, has exonerated her of any fault. "My brother and I thought we had a flawless plan," he'd told her that very day. "Obviously we did...not."

She still thinks she imagined that slight hitch in his words, the sadness in his eyes hinting that Sherlock's older brother was human after all.

But in her heart of hearts, she wants to believe it's true. That he really did have to collect himself upon seeing Sherlock's body on the morgue slab, where it should have been that of another man carefully made up to look like his brother.

Since she's never been in contact with him since that day, Molly supposes she will forever be caught in a state of being not unlike Schrödinger's cat - certain and uncertain at the same time, with no way of knowing the truth until someone opens the metaphorical box.

She laughs at herself, a bitter sound, at how crazed her thoughts sound even in her own head. If she were to share them with someone, anyone - but no.

She's tried therapy but nothing can ease the dull ache of guilt she carries around with her.

She was supposed to save Sherlock Holmes, and instead...instead, she's killed him.

It certainly doesn't help that John Watson accused her of that very crime, when she went to him after and confessed everything, very much against Mycroft's wishes. The fact that he never contacted her to condemn her for her loose lips means nothing; she's locked in her own hell and nothing he could do to her could possibly make it worse.

John at least has managed to move on, found himself a fiancée according to Mrs. Hudson. That's good, he deserves some happiness considering how they all conspired against him with his (deceased, dead and buried, passed beyond the Veil) best friend. At the time Sherlock's arguments seemed compelling, logical, but in the aftermath...well. If things had worked out as planned, then the cruelty would have been justified. Maybe. Possibly.

But now…

She stops by the kitchen window, gazes unseeing out at the back garden - such a rare luxury in the 'dead center of London' but well worth the expense.

Come spring she'll need to do some serious work on it, as she's neglected it badly the past two years.

No more.

"Buck up, Molly," she tells herself, bracing her hands against the rim of the stainless steel sink. "Stop wallowing and get on with your life!"

"Excellent advice."

She gasps, turns so quickly she loses her footing, stumbles forward a few steps and nearly falls, only to be caught in a pair of arms, against a warm chest that's as familiar as the voice - the impossible voice - she just heard.

Slowly she raises her eyes up, almost too frightened to look past chest-level, but the sight of those straining buttons and the familiar, tight purple shirt give her all the courage she needs.

"Sherlock," she breathes, clutching his arms as she meets his amused gaze. "You're...you're alive!"

He purses his lips, tilts his head to the side. "Mm, not really," he says. "But I'm not dead, either."

"How…"

He shrugs. "Hard to explain. Let's just say I've been given a second chance and leave it at that, shall we?" Something in her expression must give her away; he smiles and reaches up to glide his thumb over her cheek. "All right fine...I've been given a second chance to make things right, to complete certain tasks left unfinished...and to say the things I never said."

"What unsaid things?"

He smiles again, his fingers still light on her face. "Things like, thank you for being my friend to John and Greg. Things like thank you for being a surrogate mother to a surly, angry young man, Mrs. Hudson." He draws in a soft breath, lets it out. Leans closer to her, hands now cradling her face. "Things like, I love you, Molly Hooper."

Their lips meet, her heart soars and she holds him in her arms, grateful beyond measure for this second chance he's been granted. A million questions crowd her mind, but she banishes them all, basking in the warmth of his embrace and the secure knowledge that someday, when she's ready, she'll ask them - and he'll answer them.

Unseen by her, a soft white feather drifts to the floor behind Sherlock Holmes, and he smiles against her lips.

Someday, indeed.


	13. Turnabout

_A/N: Once upon a time there was a tumblr post where the OP posited a Sherlock series where Ben and Martin played Moriarty and Moran to Andrew Scott's Sherlock Holmes. That sparked this little ficlet, which is technically Molliarty since it's Molly and Moriarty buuuuut since Moriarty is played by Ben C., it's also kinda-sort Sherlolly._

 _Confused? Yeah, me too, and I wrote the darn thing! Anyhoo, enjoy some T rated swaplock featuring Molly as Molly, Moriarty as Sherlock and Sherlock as Moriarty._

* * *

Molly turned on Sherlock with a steely glint in her eyes, one he'd never seen before and was rather impressed she could manage so well. Then again, considering the stakes, now wasn't the time to admire her sudden backbone. "Sherlock, what the hell was all that? Why were you calling yourself 'Will Scott from IT' - and why pretend to be my boyfriend?"

The steely glint vanished behind a sudden sheen of moisture as tears threatened. "Why are you doing this to me, Sherlock? Why are you making fun of me? And in front of my colleagues?"

Sherlock frowned, shifted from foot to foot, but kept his gaze steady on hers, brown eyes meeting brown eyes. Why had he never realized they were nearly of a height? _Because she always makes herself smaller around you,_ an inner voice whispered, and his frown deepened.

"I wasn't making fun of you, Molly," he said, dropping the affected Irish accent with which he'd been speaking while the two men calling themselves 'Dr. Richard Brook' and 'Dr. John Watson' had been in the lab with them. "And those two men are _not_ your colleagues."

"Yes they are!" she insisted, her voice rising in what he judged to be a combination of anger and frustration. "I've been working with them on some research, you know I have, I told you all about it, more than once over the past couple of months." Her lips thinned as she folded her arms across her chest defensively. "Or were you not actually listening? I thought you at least listened when I talked about professional matters!"

"I _do_ listen," he insisted, running agitated hands through his short dark hair, causing it to stand on end. He smoothed it back down automatically as he continued to speak. "But I promise you, Molly, those two men are not who they're representing themselves to be." He took a step forward, reaching out to grip her by the arm, willing her to understand the urgency of the situation. "The one calling himself Richard Brook? All tall, dark curls and deep voice? He's actually Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal I've been searching for. And the other man, he's his lieutenant, an ex-army colonel named Sebastian Moran, the second deadliest man in England."

Molly gave a short, disbelieving laugh, shook her head, and jerked her arm away. At least tears were no longer threatening; now she looked ready to murder - him, because she refused to believe him? Or them, for using her to get to him? Only her next words would tell.

She blinked. Blinked again. Gave him the saddest smile he'd ever seen on her or anyone else's lips. "Oh Sherlock," she sighed, one hand buried in her lab coat pocket, the other reaching out to gently take him by the arm. "I'm so sorry you found out, but I have my orders, so..."

His last conscious thought was one of disbelief, even as the drug Molly had injected him with dragged him down into darkness.

 **Two Weeks Later**

Molly grimaced in discomfort, reaching up to rub at her shoulder as she entered the locker room. Today's last autopsy (of four!) had been a literal pain as she'd had to roll a twenty-stone corpse onto its side all by herself - and that on top of a double shift due to her relief calling out. A hot bath and some wine were the least she owed herself when she got home.

As she opened her locker door and looked automatically at the mirror she'd placed there, her eyes widened and mouth dropped open at the sight of an unexpected reflection behind her own.

Gasping in alarm she spun around, but before she could do more, _he_ was there. Standing alarmingly close to her. Blocking her ability to run - and, as his hand swiftly moved to cover her mouth, to scream.

"Surprised to see me, Molly Hooper?" That voice - rich and deep, velvety smooth and warm as melted chocolate - sent a shiver up her nodded dumb response to the question, taking in a shuddering breath as 'Richard Brook' removed his large hand from her face, allowing those long, elegant fingers to trail their way down her neck before withdrawing completely.

"I, I heard you were dead," she squeaked out. "Sherlock said…"

"Now Molly," he tutted, "let's not play that game, shall we? We both know that the only thing Sherlock said before he jumped off the roof of this very building was a warning to you. A warning his dear brother Mycroft had already given you before Seb and I ever set foot in your lab." He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that had Molly's pulse thudding in her throat in a heady combination of terror and arousal. "That's why you drugged him, isn't it? On Mycroft's orders?"

"He didn't want him g-going after you," Molly replied, a tacit confession. "He was trying to protect him but he was too damn stubborn, he met you up on the roof anyway…"

"And now he's pretending to be dead, just like me," Moriarty finished for her. Deducing the truth, or simply telling her what he already knew?

She started to shake her head; he reached out with lightning speed and grasped her chin in his hand, tilting her head up so that she was forced to meet his cold gaze. "Don't bother lying, Molly, you're not very good at it unless you've had time to prepare." His grasp eased, fingertips turning caressing again, raising gooseflesh on her arms. "You were quite good that day Seb and I came to the lab to 'meet our collaborator in person', I'll give you that." The trailing fingers ended up behind her ear, his other hand resting casually against her throat. "But…" He allowed the word to trail out then fell silent. Watching her through those quicksilver eyes that had always mesmerized her.

"But?" she prompted in a whisper, feeling his hands settle loosely around her throat.

"But now I have a dead man to find before he can finish dismantling my entire criminal empire," he finished, leaning down so that his forehead nearly rested against hers. "The game has changed, Molly Hooper, and I have you to thank for that."

She closed her eyes, expecting to feel his hands tightening on her throat, stealing her breath and life in punishment for her interference with his plans.

Instead, she felt his mouth covering hers in a rough, demanding kiss that stole the very breath from her lungs. Instinct caused her to reach up, to grasp his arms and steady herself, but it wasn't instinct alone that caused her to part her lips beneath his, to allow him to plunder her mouth with his tongue.

No, it was pure, carnal desire that made her return the kiss with equal passion. She'd thought herself in love with Sherlock Holmes, once upon a time, but now she realized that had been nothing but a passing infatuation. Oh, she would still do anything to help him, she'd already proven that by allowing Mycroft to bring her in on his own plans to save his brother from the very man now pressing his body so fervently against her own that her back would bear marks from the locker door against which she now rested.

Yes, she would do anything to save Sherlock, because in love with him or not, she knew he was a man well worth saving. He might be prickly and rude and self-destructive to a fault, but he was a good man doing good work.

A pity, she thought distantly as she as and Moriarty sank to the floor together, their clothing tumbling from their bodies in their mutual frenzy of lust, that she had always had a thing for the bad boy.

* * *

 _End note: Thanks for reading, and thanks as always to all my readers and reviewers. You guys rock!_


	14. Behind the Sensitive Content Button

_Ukthxbye (talking about NSFW content on a tumblr blog): It's behind the sensitive content button lol_

 _Me: That sounds like a racy novel title. 'Behind the Sensitive Content Button - a novel of sensual awakening'_

 _And then this just sort of...happened. Rated M for smexy times, enjoy!_

* * *

He slid his callused, violinist's fingers up, up from her hips, gliding inward toward her navel. She sucked in a breath, suddenly desperate for air.

"Like this?" he asked, his voice a heated rumble that spread languid, molten heat through her veins. "Is this the sensitive content button?" he whispered as his fingers grazed the very edge of her navel. "Or is it...here?"

Slowly, almost painfully, his fingers glid down, down, grazing the edges of her frilly, girly knickers. Knickers that were already soaking from her need. "Is this the right button?" he asked, fingers finally - finally! - brushing against Exactly the Right Spot.

Uncontrolled shivers ran down her spine, her legs, her arms as she threw back her head and gasped out, "Oh yes, yes!"

"Hmm, something seems to be blocking me, to keep me from seeing a certain NSFW part of your body," he said, offering her a cocky grin as he slid between her parted legs. "I can't see the content I'm most interested in. Very annoying. Perhaps we should migrate to a different-"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock!" Molly yelled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head down so that his face was pressed against her crotch. "I should never had told you about that stupid website. Will you just get on with licking my pussy, you horrible tease?"

Sherlock chuckled against her crotch, then obediently, carefully pulled aside her knickers, inserted his tongue into her pussy, and did as instructed until Molly was a panting, writhing, cursing mess beneath him.

Oh, how he loved teasing and taunting his little mouse - just as she loved teasing and taunting him. His cock was the proverbial steel rod, crammed into his too-tight trousers, but he wouldn't be allowed to put it where he most wanted it to be until he'd done as promised and made Molly beg for mercy.

Twice.


	15. Tell Her About It

_Prompt of the Day - 4/15/19 holidaysat221b:_ _After the events of TFP, Molly and Sherlock get closer. Suddenly, though, he pulls away and starts flirting with a coworker of hers, sometimes blatantly in front of her. It isn't until an event at Barts that the truth comes out that it was all for a case. - noregretsnotearsnoanxieties_

 _A/N: Title taken from Billy Joel's song by the same name. Rated T for some bad language on Molly's part. Which she is totally justified in using, by the way._

* * *

Good, good, Molly had come to the Bart's fundraising event as planned, and her blackmailing coworker had been quietly led away by the Met, also as planned. And now, finally, he could take Molly into his arms and dance with her - also as planned.

Well. So much for plans.

Molly gave him a cold stare as she stood before him in her sparkling red ballgown, arms crossed in classic defensive - angry? - posture. "You've treated me like shit all week, Sherlock, while making a spectacular ass of yourself with _Whitney_ , so what makes you think I'll just fall into your arms like nothing's happened?"

His brow creased as a feeling of unease crept up his spine. Why was Molly being so...not her? The case was over! And this open ballroom wasn't actually the place to have this kind of conversation, he didn't need a Mind Palace John Watson to tell him that. At least Molly willingly accompanied him as he led her to a secluded corner on the opposite side of the room.

"Whitney's been arrested, you know I was just flirting with her for a case," he explained as he studied her stiff, unhappy form. How could she not understand? His unease was rapidly heading toward panic as Molly's expression softened not one iota.

"A case?" she said, with something very like a sneer in her voice. "So, what, like with Janine?"

Sherlock nodded warily. "Of course, how could you not know that? I said I had that blackmailing case to…"

"So did you sleep with her too, like Janine?" Molly interrupted. "Take showers with her, or maybe baths - John wasn't very clear about which one you two shared that time," she added, her voice even colder. "Did you make out with her, put your fingers in her tw–"

"No! No, nothing like that-and I never slept with Janine!" Sherlock exclaimed, shocked at her words. At how - angry? Yes, definitely angry - she was. Molly was the one who was supposed to understand all and forgive all - except when it came to drugs, of course, she'd made that VERY clear. _No drugs for cases, no drugs for ANYTHING, Sherlock, or we're through. I love you but I can't watch you go through that again._

That had been the only hard 'make or break' rule she'd laid down, to which he'd more than willingly agreed. So why was she so angry about this? "I didn't do any of that... stuff. Just a little harmless flirting," he tried again, but Molly raised her hand, stopping his attempted explanation.

"There's no such thing as _harmless flirting_ when you don't tell me about it first," she said. "I'm not John, Sherlock, you can't just assume I'll go along with whatever nonsense you've got going on, that you don't have to explain things to me, like I'm, I'm _nobody_ to you!"

And now it wasn't just anger in her voice, it was hurt and humiliation - how would Eurus put it? _All those complicated little emotions, I lost count._ This time it was _him_ losing count, now that he was really reading Molly, deducing her the way he tried so hard not to do in case it hurt her.

Well, he'd hurt her anyway. As he'd always known he would. "I'm sorry," he said, knowing the words weren't enough. "I just assumed you'd understand. That I had to act like we were going through a rough patch - I thought you were just playing along. I'm sorry," he said again.

Molly nodded, her face expressionless. "Fine," she said after a moment, her tone of voice telling him how very _not_ fine she actually was. "I accept that. But." She moved closer, closer, crowding into his personal space in a way he usually enjoyed but not so much today as she thrust her face up towards his aggressively. "If you _ever_ do anything like that again without telling me what's going on, I. Will. Leave. You. And maybe that's not much of a threat to you since you and I are so new…"

He couldn't help himself; he caught her hands up in his and met her eyes, hoping she could read the desperation in them, the _truth_ in them, as he said, "I swear, Molly, I swear to you, I'll never do this again. Not without explaining things first. Because that threat…it's the worst thing you could do to me. I thought I could live alone and do just fine without friends, without…without someone to love the way I love you, but I know that I can't. I need John, I need, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Mycroft and my parents and Eurus; I love them, even, but not the way I love you. You mean the world to me. I never understood that phrase until the day I saw a coffin intended for you, and almost watched you die. I love you. And I will try very hard never to hurt you like this again."

He leaned his head down so that his forehead rested on hers, surprised but not shocked to feel tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Then he felt the soft pressure of Molly's thumbs as she wiped them away, felt her move beneath him so that he could rest his head in the crook of her neck and feel the warmth of her arms as she gathered him in close, and understood without her saying so that she forgave him.

This time.

And as he hugged her so tightly she murmured something about needing to breathe, he made a private vow - so much for the one he'd made to the Watsons at their wedding being his last! - that there would never, _ever_ be a next time.


	16. By Force, Cunning and Magic

_A/N: I've had this sitting in my drafts for ages, mostly because I could not for the life of me decide how I wanted it to go - cracky humor or semi-serious smut? Ultimately I went with the first option, giving this fic a hard T for suggestive themes but nothing even close to explicit. Enjoy Molly's adventures with Sherlock, Khan, Doctor Strange and Smaug!_

* * *

"The barriers between realities are coming down!"

With a bored expression, Sherlock glanced over at the other version of himself that had just materialized in his flat. "According to you, the barriers between realities are _always_ coming down," he sneered. Waving a dismissive hand, he turned away. "It's your job to fix that, Stephen, nothing to do with me."

"Even if a certain pathologist has been kidnapped by a dragon intent on taking her for his mate?"

That caught the consulting detective's attention; sitting up from his lounging position in his leather armchair, he glared over at the version of himself that was the multiverse's Sorcerer Supreme. "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" he growled, jumping to his feet. "Let's go get her back!"

Doctor Strange looked pointedly at his non-magical self – specifically, at the ratty pyjama trousers, faded t-shirt and dressing gown he was wearing. "A bit underdressed for a rescue mission, aren't you, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective gave a frustrated growl. "Make yourself useful for once, Strange, and do that thing you do." He waved his hands about in a vague approximation of a magical gesture. "Quicker than waiting for me to get dressed, don't you think?"

Earth's Sorcerer Supreme rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath about ungrateful alternate versions of himself, then made a few mystical hand gestures. Within seconds Sherlock Holmes stood before him, nattily dressed in a bespoke black suit, custom-made Italian loafers on his feet, and a (very tight) aubergine button-up to complete the ensemble.

"Right, then, time to rescue Molly," Sherlock announced as he carefully undid the top three buttons of his shirt. When Stephen cocked a sardonic eyebrow at him, he said, "What? Molly likes them unbuttoned, says it shows off my neck better! As if you don't love how much she admires that damned cloak of yours," he added, rather petulantly.

Strange smirked. "Oh, sorry, Sherlock, is your Belstaff feeling jealous?"

"Will you two stop your childish bickering? We have a kidnapped Molly to rescue, if you recall!"

"Great," Sherlock muttered sourly as he beheld the second version of himself standing rigidly in the doorway to his flat. "Why did you have to bring _him_?"

"Khan was the one who contacted me and let me know about Molly's kidnapping," Strange said.

"Since there is only one Molly Hooper in the multiverse, it behooves us all to keep her safe," the genetically enhanced psychopath rumbled. "She's literally of singular importance to us all."

"Which is why you showed up wearing a skin-tight black shirt and trousers, exactly the way she likes to see you dressed," Sherlock snarked.

"It was just the most efficient outfit I could wear while traveling between dimensions," the Augment sneered, running a hand over his sleek black hair. Not-so-subtly reminding Sherlock that his own dark curls were virtually untamable. Bastard.

Strange, meanwhile had used his sling ring to open a portal to bring them to the New York City Sanctum. "Gentlemen!" he snapped, his American accent grating on Sherlock's ears as it always did. "I might have the Eye of Agamotto at my disposal, but time is still of the essence!"

Sherlock and Khan exchanged scowls, then opted to elaborately ignore one another as they passed through the portal, immediately moving from London to New York. Once there, Strange wasted no time in racing to the top floor, where they could see the enormous shape of a dragon through the window. "He's not actually here," Strange explained. "I've temporarily trapped his physical form in the mirror universe. That's just his astral form we're seeing. I needed him anchored to his own reality so we could more easily find where he's hidden Molly away."

"Or," a familiar voice said from behind them, "you could just, y'know, turn around."

All three men did so even before she finished speaking. Three sets of eyes widened, three jaws dropped, and one petite brunette clad in little more than a diaphanous white sheet smirked at them. "Anyone have a cigarette? I'm gasping for a smoke."

"Post-coital cigarettes are such a cliché," Stephen muttered as Sherlock practically tripped over himself hurrying to offer Molly a light.

"You appear unharmed," Khan said, eyes narrowed as he took in her languorous pose. She was leaning against the wall, a dreamy expression in her eyes as she gazed up at the image of Smaug's astral form.

"Well, he is another version of you," she said, waving the hand that now held a lit cigarette, courtesy of Sherlock. "Which means he wasn't going to hurt me, you should have known that." Her expression became harder. "All he wanted was to mate with me, which is more than the three of you have been willing to do. Gits."

"I don't share." "My life is too dangerous and unpredictable." "I'm married to my work."

"Same old, same old," Molly huffed, then took a deep drag off her cigarette before pointing at each man in turn. "You're going to have to learn to share, Khan, or we'll never have those superpowered Augment babies you've been banging on about the past three years."

Khan tried to look – innocent? Impossible, of course, but he still tried as the other two men narrowed their eyes at him.

"And your life isn't any more dangerous or unpredictable than mine at this point," she said to Stephen with a glare. "Certainly not too dangerous for you to keep popping into my reality 'just to get away for a bit, Molly, Sherlock's not the only one who thinks of your apartment-sorry-flat as a bolthole'," she added in devastating mimicry.

The only one who gave him an annoyed glance this time was Sherlock, but he quickly found himself under Molly's gimlet eye and did his best to morph his glare at Strange into a semi-neutral (but really hangdog) expression.

"As for you," she scoffed to the consulting detective with whom she shared a Prime Reality, "we both know 'married to your work' is just code for 'too much of a bloody coward to make a move'!"

Both Khan and Strange smirked at him, at least until Molly looked over at them in annoyance. Then all three of her three not-quite-suitors found themselves blinking and shifting from foot to foot, unable to meet her accusatory gaze.

Sherlock rallied first. "Oh, so the best alternative, in a multiverse just chock full of different versions of ME, is the dragon?" he sneered. He then sabotaged his attempt at taking the high ground by adding, "How did you even manage it? He's HUGE!"

"Mmm, isn't he ever," Molly purred. "But for your information - not that it's any of your business really - he has a human form. Quite a fit human form, which bodes well for Smaug Junior, here." She rubbed her belly and hummed with pleasure.

"Why did he let you take his offspring back here?" Khan demanded, shouldering his way past first Strange and then Sherlock, to stand directly in front of Molly. "Will you need us to fight him anyway, so he can't steal your child from you after you've given birth?" His eyes lit up at the prospect.

Molly smiled up at him, not one whit intimidated by the way he towered over her. "Nah," she said, patting him on the chest with her free hand. "Junior's mine to raise until he reaches adolescence. Then his dragon blood will bring him back home to his father, so he can learn about the other half of his heritage. It's up to him after that which world he wants to live in. Which means I get the poopy diapers and sleepless nights, but Smaug gets to deal with teenage hormones and attitude. Seems fair to me!"

Strange stared at her, aghast at her seeming heartlessness. "Molly, this is your child you're talking about here!"

"Yes he is!" she shot back. "MY child. Not yours." She caught Khan and Sherlock's eyes. "Or either of yours. MINE. Smaug and I have already worked out a shared custody arrangement of sorts, for after Junior gets all his dragon training out of the way."

Stephen frowned as she took another long drag off her cigarette. "Smoking is terrible for the baby. You really should quit if you're actually pregnant."

"Oh, I'm pregnant all right," Molly assured him. "Smaug wouldn't let me leave until we were sure."

That caught all three mens' attention. "Just how long were you gone?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Mm, about six months, give or take - hard to tell time in a poorly lit, humongous, treasure-filled cavern while a gorgeous dragon in human form is worshipping your body," she replied. "How long has it been here?"

"A few hours," Strange said in a choked voice. "That, that shouldn't have happened, the Eye should have-"

"Should have what? Notified you right away that I was missing because of the mystic tether you secretly set up between it and myself?" Molly finished for him. She raised a sardonic eyebrow at his the tell-tale flush that colored his cheeks. "What, you didn't think I'd notice?"

While Strange groped for some way to respond without sounding like an overprotective arse, Molly turned her attention back to Sherlock. "As for that first question you asked - yes, as far as I'm concerned, Smaug was absolutely the best alternative to end this dry spell the three of you have trapped me in ever since our realities first converged - and don't think I haven't noticed your collective cockblocking," she added crossly. "You don't think he could have actually swooped in and 'kidnapped' me -" She made sarcastic air quotes "- without my cooperation, do you?"

"But he's a _dragon,_ " Strange protested weakly, Khan nodding mute agreement. Sherlock nodded as well, but there was an odd expression in his eyes as he studied Molly's slender form, a gleam in his eyes suggestive of…something neither of the other two men noticed, but Molly certainly did.

She shrugged, stretching in a manner meant to emphasize her 'feminine assets'. "Beats fantasizing about the three of you getting off your collective arses and working out a rotation...or possibly just realizing how amazingly hot it would be for the four of us to fu-"

"Forget that," Khan snapped, scowling, arms folded across his chest. "I told you, I don't share, Molly." He gave her a smouldering look. "Come back with me to New Earth," he cajoled. "Our children will be magnificent."

She patted her stomach again, not looking the least bit tempted. "Sorry, not till little Smaug here's finished cooking. Once he's born, we'll talk." She shrugged. "Or not. Maybe you should just find some nice Augment woman to have your superbabies."

"There's no such thing as a 'nice Augment woman'," he huffed. "They're all ruthless, ambitious psychopaths."

"Takes one to know one," Sherlock muttered, not quite under his breath. Ignoring the black look Khan gave him, he offered Molly a winning smile, as well as his crooked elbow. "Anyhoo, all's well that ends well. Molly is back, safe and sound, so if you'd be so kind as to return us to our London, we'd really appreciate it." He beamed as she slipped her arm through his and allowed him to pull her tight against his side. "Sling that ring, Strange, we're ready to go home."

Molly looked up at him with a sly grin. "Sherlock Holmes," she said, eyes gleaming with speculation (and possibly anticipation, the other two noted with alarm), "do you have a pregnancy kink?"

"Let's get back to London and find out, shall we?" he said with a smirk.

Both Khan and Strange seemed about to protest, but subsided when Molly cast a steely glare at them. "Call us when you change your minds about that foursome," were her last words before the glittery gold portal opened up to return them home.

After they'd gone, Strange and Khan contemplated the bare floor where they'd been. "So. You want to give her superbabies?" Strange asked.

"As much as you want to plant your mystical heir in her womb," Khan shot back, then uttered a very uncharacteristic sigh. "Looks like we'll have to get in line behind the dragon and Mr. 'Now That You're Already Pregnant I Want to Get Freaky With You'."

"Well," Strange said as he moved into place in order to send the Augment back to his own universe, "if there's one thing Molly Hooper's always been able to do, it's keep us in line."


End file.
